IN the year 1878 I took my
degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley
to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed
my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as
Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before
I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I
learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in
the enemy’s country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in
the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety,
where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties. The campaign brought honours
and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I
was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served
at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail
bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should
have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the
devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a
pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines. Worn with pain, and weak from
the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great
train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied,
and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even
to bask a little upon the verandah,
when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions.
For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and
became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board
determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was
dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship “Orontes,” and landed a month later on
Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from
a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve
it. I had neither kith nor kin in
England, and was therefore as free as air—or as free as an income of eleven
shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances,
I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers
and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time
at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence,
and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So
alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must
either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I
must make a complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter
alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my
quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile. On the very day that I had
come to this conclusion, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when someone
tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who
had been a dresser under me at Barts. The sight of a friendly face in the great
wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days
Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with
enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance
of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off
together in a hansom. “Whatever have you been doing
with yourself, Watson?” he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through
the crowded London streets. “You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.” I gave him a short sketch of
my adventures, and had hardly concluded it by the time that we reached our
destination. “Poor devil!” he said,
commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. “What are you up to
now?” “Looking for lodgings.” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible
to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.” “That’s a strange thing,”
remarked my companion; “you are the second man to-day that has used that
expression to me.” “And who was the first?” I
asked. “A fellow who is working at
the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this
morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice
rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse.” “By Jove!” I cried, “If he
really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for
him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.” Young Stamford looked rather
strangely at me over his wine-glass. “You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he
said; “perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion.” “Why, what is there against
him?” “Oh, I didn’t say there was
anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas—an enthusiast in some
branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough.” “A medical student, I
suppose?” said I. “No—I have no idea what he
intends to go in for. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a
first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any
systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but
he has amassed a lot of out-of-the way knowledge which would astonish his
professors.” “Did you never ask him what he
was going in for?” I asked. “No; he is not a man that it
is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy
seizes him.”… (Paragraphs from A Study in Scarlet, by Arthur Conan Doyle)